The Stenographer
by ProbableImpossibilities
Summary: Marlow Fernicker is a no-nonsense civil defense attorney who will do anything to win a case and doesn't bother to care much about others, especially his clients. However, a single phone call from a Los Angeles detention center pulls him into a case that he never really wanted but could send his life into a tailspin. Written for the Court Records OC contest, so there's a lot of OCs.
1. Chapter 1

_Transcribed June 23, 2028. 3:35 p.m. _

_Los Angeles District Courtroom No. 3_

_People vs. Weiler, cont._

_Wright: Can you tell the court what you were doing at 8:00 last night?_

_Witness: I was alone, at home, hiding under my bed._

_Wright: … why were you under your bed?_

_Witness: Well, I was... afraid._

_Wright: Okay, I got that. What were you afraid of?_

_Witness: [unintelligible]_

_Wright: What was that?_

_Witness: I said, I was afraid of the Marshall._

_Wright: … [long pause] … What's the Marshall?_

_Witness: … [no response]… _

* * *

The city felt sort of like a silent movie in winter. The blacks and greys became more pronounced as the falling leaves left tree branches barren and snow covered the grass in the parks, sucking the already sparse color out of the concrete jungle. On that particular day, rolling, heavy clouds had started to gather, signaling either more snow or a very unpleasant thunderstorm. The statue of William Penn perched at the top of Philadelphia's City Hall looked adrift in a sea of bad weather, and Marlow Fernicker kind of felt bad for the old guy in a really strange sort of way. He sighed heavily, pressing his forehead against the window pane and slumping forward in a way that reflected his distinct lack of coffee. His office was dark (because he hadn't felt like turning the light on) and cluttered with files (because he hadn't felt like doing paperwork). His tie hung loosely around his neck, his rolled-up sleeves were starting to unfurl themselves, and his yellow vest was beginning to look a little wrinkled. Even Conrad the turtle, who stood in the middle of the desk munching on the lettuce from an uneaten salad, seemed more lethargic than usual.

Marlow sighed again, gazing out over the slowly darkening sky. "This is just great. I'm probably either gonna get snowed on or soaked by the time I go home today." He scowled. "Or maybe I'll get lucky and get struck by lightning. That'd be exciting, huh, Conrad?"

Per his usual, the turtle maintained a serene silence.

Marlow felt about ready to fall asleep on the window when a sharp ringing sound jolted him back to his senses. "Who's calling now?!" he grumbled, stomping over to his desk and picking up the phone with a huff. "Fernicker speaking."

"Marlow Fernicker?" The voice was decidedly female.

"The one and only," Marlow drawled, not in the mood to be having this conversation. "Look, if you're a client, I'm not really the one you should be talking to. The firm has its own number and everything-"

"I'm not calling the firm, I'm calling you." There was a curt edge to her voice. "I'm in some trouble, and a friend told me about you. You are a defense attorney, right?"

Marlow snorted, rolling his eyes. He knew where this was going. "Lady, I am not that kind of attorney. And before you start bawling about how desperate you are, how _frightened and alone_ you are, you should know that I don't fall for that crap." He leaned his back against the wall. "I don't do criminal law, so unless your name ends in L.L.C. or Incorporated, you're on your own." He poised his thumb over the "end call" button. "Goodbye-"

"My brother's Marcel Taylor," the woman blurted.

Marlow paused, staring at the phone in his hand like it was contaminated. "...So?" he said at length, trying to keep his voice level.

"I know you know him," the voice continued, sounding more confident now. "I think he's involved in this somehow."

"Involved in what?"

"...I'll be going on trial in three days," the woman stated, slowly pronouncing each word. "For murder."

Marlow whistled. "Well, good luck with that."

"That's not all." She sounded like she knew she had him right where she wanted him, which, truth be told, she did. "I'm a court stenographer. A file containing some of my highest-profile transcripts was stolen."

"And you think Marcel Taylor had a hand in it?"

"...I don't know," the woman admitted quietly. "But I do have proof that he was in my office."

"..." Marlow held the phone away from himself and covered the end of it with his hand. "What do you think, Conrad?" he whispered. "Should I help the crazy lady?"

The turtle simply looked up at him, then went back to nibbling at the lettuce.

After a long silence, Marlow sighed, defeated. "Fine. What's your name?"

"Adley Taylor."

"Right." Marlow scrambled for a pen and jotted what he hoped was a semi-correct spelling of the name down on a sticky-note. "What precinct are they holding you in?"

"Actually..."

Marlow somehow didn't like where this was going.

Adley nervously cleared her throat. "I'm in Los Angeles."

"..."

"...?"

"...Oh, you have _got_ to be freaking kidding me," he growled, not even bothering to at least somewhat mask his frustration. "Why the hell did you think I would fly all the way out there to help your sorry hide when I don't even practice criminal law?!"

"Because I'll pay for your hotel and plane tickets," Adley stated matter-of-factly. "Don't worry, all of your expenses will be fully covered. And we practice Bench Trial law down here, so the whole thing won't be longer than three days."

Marlow had to admit, a free trip to Cali sounded like a pretty good deal in exchange for a three-day trial. He knew that court stenographers didn't make much and that the money was probably fishy, but frankly, he'd had fishier, and he felt due for a vacation anyway. There was also the matter of Marcel... "Alright, if you insist-"

"Great!" Adley suddenly sounded excited. "Fly down here as soon as you can, and keep your receipts. I'm being held in the central detention center, so come see me when you arrive. I'll tell you everything you need to know." And with that, she hung up.

Marlow stared at the phone for a few silent seconds, trying to make sense of what had just happened. After a while, he gave up, sighed, put the phone back in its place, slumped into his chair, and started massaging his temples.

He couldn't help but feel that he was getting into something he'd really regret.

* * *

Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth was sitting behind his desk, tackling a rather large stack of personnel forms, when his office door made an almost imperceptible squeaking noise. He glanced up from his work; sure enough, the door had opened just a crack. Sighing quietly to himself, he stood up and crossed the room to pull open the door. "Is there something you wish to speak to me about, Mr. Baynes?"

The young man cowering outside his door slowly lowered his red scarf, which he had held up to hide his face in what Edgeworth could only assume was a nervous reflex. "W- Well, if it's alright with you..." he whispered, then trailed off and shakily adjusted his glasses.

Edgeworth sighed, shaking his head. _Why must good prosecutors always be so difficult to deal with? _"I can't help you if don't tell me what you need, Mr. Baynes."

The young man cast his blue eyes to the floor, playing nervously with his scarf. "I don't want to be any trouble to you, sir," he murmured, "but could you... I mean, you don't have to, but... could you please take me off the Taylor case?"

Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. "You've never turned down a case before... I assume you have a good reason for this?"

Baynes brushed his blonde bangs out of his eyes. "I... may be too emotionally involved, sir."

Edgeworth hadn't known the man could experience emotions other than fear. "I'm sorry, but it's too close to the trial date. I don't feel comfortable entrusting the case to another prosecutor with so little time left for them to prepare." His grey eyes narrowed slightly. "If this case bothers you, why did you not bring it up before now?"

Baynes looked up at Edgeworth with wide eyes. "I… I was too… too…"

Edgeworth frowned, realizing that the answer to his own question should have been obvious. "Too nervous, correct?" When Baynes gave a tiny nod, he sighed and started to close the door. "Again, I apologize, but I really can't afford to take you off this case. Whatever your 'emotional involvement,' I am confident in your capabilities as a prosecutor. Please try to remember that."

As the door to Edgeworth's office closed, Sidney Baynes shut his eyes tight and leaned back against the wall, hugging his arms to his chest. "...I was hoping you wouldn't say that, sir…" he whispered.

* * *

Marlow whistled. "Nice place. Very homey."

Adley let out a single harsh, rather sarcastic laugh, but her light brown eyes betrayed a spark of genuine amusement at the comment. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't make jokes in questionable taste, Mr. Fernicker." She tapped on the glass pane that separated her from her newly-hired attorney. "Though it is a very up-to-date detention center. I've certainly seen worse."

Marlow leaned back in his seat and spread open a manilla folder on the small ledge/table/whatever that jutted outwards from the bottom of the glass. "I guess we should get down to business. I already talked to the detective in charge, a guy named Gumshoe… he seems pretty incompetent, so there's one name to add to the 'possible exploitable witnesses' list."

"I feel kinda bad, since he's so nice," Adley admitted, smoothing the front of her powder-blue blazer. "But we can definitely exploit him. I heard he likes hot dogs."

Marlow smirked. "You know what, kid, you're not half-bad." He raised an eyebrow. "Although you look more… chipper than you sounded on the phone."

Adley shrugged, an easy grin forming on her face. "I was trying to make a strong first impression. Now that you're actually here, I can be myself."

Marlow rolled his eyes. "Grand." He turned back to his case file, which was actually distressingly thin. "Anyway, here's the facts I got from our obliging detective: the victim is a Mr. Joseph Schmö, thirty-two years old and unemployed. On December third, at approximately two in the morning, a janitor in your building called the police station saying that he heard what sounded like a struggle in your office. Ten minutes later, the police arrived at the scene to find a room that looked like a hurricane tore through it, featuring you standing over a very dead body with blood on your clothes and a creepy, murderous expression on your face."

Adley looked innocently confused. "Creepy and murderous?"

"Yeah, well, I get the feeling that Detective Gummy has an active imagination," Marlow drawled, pulling a yellow notepad out of his briefcase and flipping to a blank page. "But you have to admit, this doesn't look good."

Adley folded her arms and raised an eyebrow, an amused smirk on her face. "Does that bother you?"

Marlow grinned. "Not in the least. In fact, I'm looking forward to spinning this one." He pulled out a pen and started to jot some notes down on his pad. "Do we wanna go for self-defense? Maybe battered women's syndrome? How well did you know the guy?"

"I didn't know him at all, and I didn't kill him," Adley insisted, pouting slightly. "I just walked into my office to find the place a mess and his body on my new carpet. Of course, I couldn't know if he was actually dead or not, so I did the right thing and checked his pulse, which is how I got the blood on my clothes."

"But _before_ doing that, you checked your files and noticed some of them had been stolen," Marlow corrected, pointing the business end of his pen accusingly at Adley. "There was no blood on the cabinets, so obviously your papers were more important to you than the guy bleeding out on the floor."

"I- I wasn't thinking clearly at the time," Adley insisted, obviously still trying to milk the 'innocent' act. "How did that poor man die, anyway?"

Marlow flipped through his case file. "Let's see… stabbed in the chest with a kitchen knife. The thing was still sticking out of him when police reached the scene."

"Well, I didn't want to remove it," Adley clarified, sounding somewhat defensive. "I've heard that doing that can actually make the person lose more blood. Besides, if I touched the knife, my fingerprints would get on it. See, I was trying to _not_ end up here."

"Well that sucks, because it turns out that the knife was actually from the set in your kitchen," Marlow informed her dryly. "So of course your prints are on it. Do you remember anybody breaking into your apartment within the last couple of days?"

"No." Adley bit her lip. "But Marcel has a key."

Marlow froze. "...You've been in touch?"

Adley looked uncomfortable, if not somewhat guilty. "Not really… but I sent him that spare key last year, when he still had that P.O. box in Missouri, along with a letter telling him that he could come visit anytime he wanted."

"Marcel's been on the lam for years, kid," Marlow stated icily, glowering at Adley with his arms folded. "It was stupid to think he'd drop in one day for a friendly chat."

"I know," Adley sighed, playing distractedly with her short brown hair. "But he's my brother, and… I just really wanted to see him again. I don't expect you to understand…" Her expression softened. "Especially after what he put you through."

Marlow rolled his eyes. "What, you mean that one time when he skipped town just as our company was about to get the pants sued off of it and left me to take the fall? Or how he betrayed my trust, ruined my innocence and turned my life into a living hell of debt, failure and broken dreams? I'm totally over that."

Adley glared at him. "He never meant to do any of that to you, he was just scared!"

"Look, you said you had proof that Marcel was in your office," Marlow shot back. "Whether he's actually involved or not, we might be able to pin this on him and get you off the hook, so you'd better tell me everything you know right now."

Adley looked upset, but she bit back her anger and settled for simply glowering at him. "The proof is the spare key that I sent to him. I found it sitting in the cabinet drawer where I stored the stolen transcripts."

Marlow nodded pensively, scribbling what she'd told him onto his notepad. "Spare key… got it. I'll get somebody to dust it for prints, but of course we've got nothing to match them against. Still, it at least raises the possibility of a third party having been in that office, which is good for us. Now..." He put his notepad back in his briefcase and folded his arms. "When you called me, you said you were told about me and my connection to your brother by a friend."

Adley avoided eye-contact. "I don't think I should tell you who he is…"

Marlow shrugged. "Okay, whatever. I'll just head back to Philly, then. Get myself a good beefsteak with whiz-"

"Fine." Adley sighed. "I work with the prosecutor's office a lot, so when I was arrested, the man who's trying my case suggested I call you. His name's Sidney Baynes."

"Baynes?" Marlow was having a hard time remembering where he'd heard that name before… suddenly, it hit him. "Oh yeah, that guy. He used to follow me around back in college." A smirk spread across his face. "So 'Sissy Sid' is prosecuting your case? That's a relief. I thought I'd end up against someone tough, like that Blackquill that's been all over the news recently."

"Don't underestimate him," Adley warned, though she looked like she was suppressing a laugh. "Sidney's actually got a pretty high conviction rate. His questioning may be annoying as all get-out to transcribe, but he's a good lawyer." She held a finger to her chin thoughtfully. "Though if he's giving me advice on defense attorneys, I guess he must sympathize with me at least a little…"

"I really can't imagine why," Marlow grumbled, shoving his case file into his briefcase and standing up from his seat. "Well, it's been fun, but I think we're done here. See you in court tomorrow."

Adley waved at him cheerily as he headed towards the door. "I believe in you, Mr. Fernicker!"

Marlow scowled, wincing visibly. "Don't ever do that again."


	2. Chapter 2

"Order, please." The judge banged his gavel. "This court is hereby called to order for the case of People versus Adley Taylor. Does the defendant wish to enter a plea?"

Adley stood at the witness stand in the middle of the courtroom, hands clasped behind her back. To Marlow, who stood watching her from behind the defense bench, she actually looked very professional considering the amount of time she'd just spent in a cell. "Not guilty, Your Honor."

The judge sighed, shaking his head slightly. "It really is a shame to see you before this court, Miss Taylor. You're one of the best stenographers I've had the pleasure of working with."

"Thank you, Your Honor, that means a lot," Adley replied, looking like she was trying to appear as touched as possible. "If I may be so bold… did you trim your beard recently? It looks absolutely dashing."

The judge chuckled, blushing slightly, and Marlow felt strangely impressed at Adley's brown-nosing but also somewhat ashamed by how pathetic the tactic was… especially since it seemed to be working. "Why, yes, I did touch it up a bit," the judge boasted, running his hand along the bottom edge of his beard. "I think it makes me look at least ten years younger-"

"Um, I- I don't mean to interrupt, but, um, I think we should start the trial, Your Honor… if that's okay…"

Marlow turned his head to face the prosecutor's bench, which was where the barely-audible voice had originated from, but strangely, there seemed to be no one there. He huffed. "Great, our prosecutor's the Invisible Man."

"I'm not invisible," the voice mumbled, "just down here."

Marlow raised an eyebrow. '_Down here'...?_

The judge sighed. "Mr. Baynes, we've talked about this. You have to stand up when you present your case."

"A- Alright…" Slowly, a head, then a pair of shoulders, and finally a torso emerged from underneath the large wooden desk, resulting in what looked like a quivering pile of standing clothes topped by a scarf and a pair of glasses. "Sorry, Your Honor," Sidney Baynes whispered, casting a fearful glance in Marlow's direction. The defense attorney noticed and snorted derisively, arms folded across his chest. "This is ridiculous."

"Right, well, now that I can see everyone, is the defense ready?" the judge asked.

Marlow scowled. "Yeah, sure, whatever."

The judge sighed and turned to face Sidney. "Is the prosecution ready? ...oh, and this time, regardless of whether you actually feel ready or not, please just say 'yes.'"

Sidney gulped and started fidgeting with his scarf. "The prosecution is ready, Your Honor… at least, I think so…"

"Good enough. You may begin your opening statement, Mr. Baynes."

Sidney cleared his throat, or at least that's what Marlow assumed he was doing. The sound he made was actually more reminiscent of a mouse coughing something up. "The, um, prosecution has evidence as well as witnesses that will testify that Miss Taylor- err, the defendant did knowingly and willfully kill Mr. Joseph Schmö with a kitchen knife in her office at approximately two a.m. on December third. That is all." He glanced up at the judge. "...unless you'd like to hear more…"

"No, no, that's fine, thank you," the judge said, a little too quickly. "Please call your first witness."

Sidney nodded. "The prosecution would like to call Senior Detective Dick Gumshoe to the stand… if that's okay…"

As the Detective made his way to the witness stand, Adley stepped down and flashed Marlow a wry grin and a thumbs-up. Marlow covered his forehead with his palm, wincing. _Why does she have to do this lame stuff…?_

"Detective, would you mind stating your name and occupation for the court?" Sidney asked, sounding like he was asking a neighbor to borrow some sugar.

The detective, a big man with spiked hair and a Band-Aid stuck to the left side of his face, grinned. "Sure thing, pal. My name's Dick Gumshoe, and I'm the Senior Detective of the Criminal Affairs division of the LAPD."

The judge smiled pleasantly. "Congratulations on your promotion, Detective."

"Hey, thanks, Your Honor," Gumshoe replied, scratching the back of his head. "I got a little bit of a raise, too, so I can finally afford to put seasoning in my ramen every once in a while!"

Marlow raised his hand, looking thoroughly unamused. "'Scuse me, Pops, but isn't this irrelevant?"

The judge blinked. "Ah, right. Please continue your questioning, Mr. Baynes."

Sidney gave a tiny nod. "Detective, could you please describe exactly what it was that made you initially suspect the defendant?"

Marlow blinked. _Jumping right into the meaty stuff, huh? This guy sure doesn't waste any time…_

Gumshoe looked slightly taken aback, as well. "Well, see, when I first arrived at the scene of the crime, she was the only one in the room other than the vic, and she was covered in blood. Doesn't really take a genius to figure out who did it."

"Good, 'cause you'd never have a suspect otherwise," Marlow quipped, glancing idly at his fingernails. He decided he'd wait until Sidney finished presenting his evidence to start working his own case. Timing was everything in this type of trial.

"What'd you just say, pal?!" Gumshoe roared, but surprisingly, he calmed down when Sidney raised his hand. "Detective, please, there's no need to shout," the prosecutor told him calmly. "Instead, focus your energy into your testimony... I mean, if you want to. Now, what other evidence did you find at the scene that implicated the defendant?"

Gumshoe shot Marlow a dark look, but continued his testimony. "The knife that was left in the victim's body had her fingerprints all over it-"

"Objection!" Marlow smirked. "Aren't you forgetting something, Dick?"

"Don't call me that, pal," Gumshoe growled.

"The knife that was used to kill Joe Schmö was a kitchen knife, wasn't it?" Marlow pulled a picture of the knife out of his case file and held it up for the detective to see. "Matter of fact, this is Adley Taylor's kitchen knife. Of course her prints would be on it."

"So what?" Gumshoe shrugged. "That doesn't prove anything either way, pal. In fact, since it's her knife, it's more likely that she was the one to use it!"

"Are you sure about that?" Marlow smirked; time to drop the bomb. "Turns out that Miss Adley wasn't the only one with access to her kitchen knives; she sent a spare key to her apartment to her fugitive brother, Marcel Taylor."

"O- Objection!" Sidney sort-of shouted, pointing a shaky finger at Marlow. "Your Honor, this is speculation! I- I mean, there's nothing at either the crime scene or the defendant's home to prove that Marcel used that key, if it even exists..."

"Objection!" Marlow's smirk widened into a full-on grin. _Butter me up, because I am on a roll! _"Actually, I do have proof. In fact, I can prove that Marcel Taylor himself was at the crime scene on the night Joe Schmö died!"

Sidney took a jittery step backwards, holding the end of his scarf in front of his face like a shield. "W- What?!"

"Take a look at these photos of Adley's office from before and after the murder," Marlow said, holding up two full-page photos from his case file. "Before the incident, you can clearly see that the bottom drawer in this cabinet is full to bursting. But in the 'after' photo, it's completely empty. See, the files from this drawer were stolen, probably by whoever actually killed Joe Schmö."

The judge blinked. "Why, you're right, the drawer is empty! I hadn't noticed that before!"

"I believe it," Marlow muttered, then pulled another photo out of his file. "What I'm trying to get at here is that the drawer was completely full before all the files were removed. So obviously, anything found inside that drawer must've gotten there either during or after the murder. Now..." He held up the photo triumphantly. "How do you suppose this _spare key to Adley Taylor's apartment_ could have wound up in that very drawer?!"

Sidney yelped, hiding himself under his desk. "B- But the key could simply belong to Miss Taylor herself," he whimpered. "Sh- She could have d- dropped it there after she k- killed Mr. Schmö-"

Marlow cut him off with a loud 'ha!' "I'm afraid that's not possible. Adley Taylor's prints weren't found anywhere on that key. I hate to break it to you, kid, but it's clear..." He pointed dramatically at the prosecutor's desk. "Someone else _must_ have been at the crime scene when Joe Schmö was stabbed, and I think you know who!"

The courtroom was filled with noise as the gallery suddenly went into an uproar. The judge banged his gavel for order, but it wasn't having much effect. Marlow gave a satisfied 'heh' and leaned back against the wall behind him, arms folded across his chest. Sidney still hadn't emerged from behind his desk, so Marlow decided it was a fine time to do some taunting. "What, has the prosecution given up already? I honestly expected just a little more from you, Sissy Sid." He shrugged. "Not sure what it was, though. Maybe I was thinking you'd have more evidence than just a knife, but it looks like that was about it." He turned to the judge. "Pops, I think we're done here."

"P- Please wait." Sidney slowly peeked his head above the surface of the desk. "Marcel Taylor was indeed at the crime scene at the time of the murder."

"Yeah, we've established that," Marlow growled, slightly peeved.

"No, you've got it wrong," Sidney said, rising slowly to his feet. There was an unnerving coldness in his eyes that hadn't been there before. "Of course I considered the possibility that Marcel Taylor was involved in the case. You couldn't have known this, but we also found the letter that Miss Taylor had sent him along with the key strewn among the papers on the floor of the office."

"So there's no question about it; he was there, he could have done it, Adley Taylor is off the hook," Marlow insisted, though he was starting to get a very bad feeling.

"Actually, I did some digging into Joseph Schmö's past, and discovered something very interesting." Sidney's lips curved upward into what could almost be called a smile, though there was no warmth in it. "Did you know that Mr. Schmö never actually existed?"

Marlow took a step backwards, his right eye twitching slightly. _Shit… no way…_

"The name was an alias," Sidney continued, tilting his head slightly. "Isn't that interesting? What's even more interesting is that 'Joseph Schmö' came into existence right around the time that Miss Taylor's letter to her brother reached a P.O. box in Missouri." He turned to face Marlow. "Oh, and I did notice the key in the drawer, and just like you, Mr. Fernicker, I had it dusted for prints. But unlike you, I didn't simply dismiss the prints that were present as unidentifiable, and I found a match. The prints on the key came from the victim."

"So the dead guy got his grubby hands on the key somehow," Marlow countered, struggling desperately against what he could already tell was his imminent doom. "That doesn't make it any less likely that Marcel killed him-"

"No, it makes it quite impossible." Sidney briefly ducked underneath the desk and came back up with a manilla file, which he opened and laid out on the desk. "Adley Taylor hadn't seen her brother since she was fourteen; she might not have recognized him if she actually met him today. But I had an expert police sketch artist create a sketch of what Marcel Taylor would look like at age thirty-two based on his last known photo…" He held up two photos, one of a drawing of a face and another of the same face laid out on an autopsy table. "As you can see, the victim, Joseph Schmö, was, in actuality, Mr. Taylor himself! Therefore..." He finger whipped through the air to point accusingly at Marlow. "...the only one who could have killed him was his sister, Adley Taylor!" He then immediately wilted. "...At least, that's the prosecution's theory… if that's okay…"

The gallery started buzzing again, and Marlow cursed himself. He should have seen this coming… no, he'd considered it, but he'd been hoping to sweep it under the rug. He was in some deep trouble now… "But you still haven't shown any motive," Marlow argued, turning slightly to the judge. "Adley was trying to reconnect with her brother; she even sent him a key to her apartment! Why would she want to kill him?"

"P- Perhaps they got into an argument in her office," Sidney countered, back to his usual nervous self. "The fact that she didn't flee the scene suggests that it could have been a crime of passion committed in the heat of the moment."

"I guess you're assuming that Adley Taylor has a habit of keeping kitchen knives in her office just for the heck of it," Marlow dryly pointed out. "Whoever brought the knife to the office was planning to kill the victim, and we've already discussed why Adley wouldn't have done that. Besides, there's still the matter of the stolen files. Why would Adley kill her brother and then clean out her own drawers?" He glared at Sidney. "Face it, your case makes no sense."

The judge stroked his beard. "Well, I must say, this seems like quite the pickle. Mr. Baynes?"

Sidney jumped, making a small, nervous squeak. "Y- Yes, Your Honor?"

"Please investigate this matter further and come back tomorrow with a proper motive," the judge instructed, then banged his gavel. "That's it for today; court is adjourned."

* * *

The intimate knowledge of death always brings along with it a strange sense of emptiness - or rather, of finality. No matter how many love him, hate him, laugh or cry with him, or spit on his grave, once someone is dead, he's gone. And of course none of this matters to the dead man - he's dead, after all. It's the people he left behind that have to spend the next lonely hours, or days, or years of their lives carrying the weight of oblivion. It's hard knowledge, like a rock stuck in your chest.

Marlow almost couldn't face Adley after the trial. When he saw her expression through the detention center's glass, saw the mascara smeared underneath her eyes and the sad helplessness of her smile, he nearly turned around and walked out of there, probably never to return. Despite the festering hatred for Marcel he'd carried with him all throughout the years the man had been missing, he was acutely aware of the hole his death had left in Adley's life and, to some extent, his own. It was an awareness that he could never admit to, even in his own mind.

He slid into the seat in front of the glass divider, not quite sure what to say for perhaps the first time in his life. Luckily, Adley beat him to it.

"I didn't even try to save him," she admitted quietly. "It's like you said; my papers were more important than my brother bleeding out on the floor." She heaved a single, wracking sob and covered her mouth with her hand. "God, how could I have been so stupid?"

"You really didn't kill him." Marlow didn't usually bother deciding if his own clients were innocent or not, but this time it seemed like certifiable fact.

"Who could have done this…?" Adley questioned, though it seemed like she wasn't really expecting an answer.

Marlow heaved a sigh and shrugged his shoulders. "Beats me, kid. My whole case is basically a shambles."

Adley glanced up at him, running her fingers underneath her eyes. "Isn't there anything else? A clue, or… something?"

"Well, the files might've told us something, but the whole point of them being stolen is that we don't have them anymore," Marlow grumbled, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his briefcase and popping one into his mouth.

Adley eyed him with something akin to disgust. "You know you can't smoke in here."

"I'm not - it helps me think," Marlow spat, chomping on the end of the cigarette. "Anyway, given my luck today, you probably don't have extra copies of those files."

"I might have one." Adley looked thoughtful. "I've actually been uploading my paper-copy transcripts to my laptop for just such an occasion… although I don't think I got very far into the bottom drawer."

Marlow shrugged. "Eh, I guess it wouldn't hurt to check it out. Does your laptop have a password?"

"Yes," Adley answered, looking somewhat embarrassed. "It's 'Losungswort.' With a capital 'L.'"

Marlow raised an eyebrow. "...Isn't that German for 'password?'"

"I'm a court stenographer, not a creative-password-generator," Adley snapped back, actually blushing slightly. "Just go find whoever killed my brother."

Marlow rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, enough of the sappy crap. See you tomorrow…"

"Wait, hold on a minute!"

Marlow turned around, having already made it halfway to the door. "What now?!"

"There's something you should know about those files." Adley looked gravely serious. "Though I usually sort my transcripts alphabetically, that drawer contained almost exclusively records of court proceedings. They all had to do with a certain wanted criminal known as 'The Marshall.'"

"Who?"

Adley sighed. "The Marshall is wanted for a string of burglaries and home invasions that stretches from here to Maine. Because he moves around so much, extraditing him would be a nightmare… that is, of course, if the police could ever find any evidence or even figure out who he is. There were a couple of cases where witnesses would mention his name, but they were always too afraid to say any more than that."

"Alright, so maybe this Marshall guy killed your brother," Marlow mumbled, somewhat unconvinced. "Good to know. Now if you'll excuse me…"

"Right, of course." Adley smiled sadly and gave him a little wave. "Good luck."

Marlow paused. "...Thanks, kid."

* * *

Adley Taylor's office had been almost completely covered in police tape, though by the time Marlow got there, most of the officers themselves had moved on to other things. There were only a couple of forensics people and a female officer named Hammer left at the scene, and they all seemed pretty sure he wouldn't find anything.

"You're not gonna find anything," Hammer told Marlow for the third time in twenty minutes, watching over his shoulder as he flipped open Adley's laptop. Marlow snarled at her. "Oh my God, if you say that one more time I will make you eat your stupid hat."

Hammer tugged on the edges of her hat self-consciously. "But it's true. We've already been all over everything here, including that computer. It's pretty much clean."

"Yeah, well, that's for me to decide," Marlow grumbled, typing in the password and watching as the desktop loaded. He'd already done some snooping around the office, and he bagged a couple of random things that stuck out to him, but so far, he hadn't really found anything major, so if there was nothing good on this computer he was basically sunk. He clicked on a folder labeled "Transcripts" - conveniently enough, there was a sub-folder titled "Bottom Drawer" inside. He had to allow himself a quiet chuckle; Adley sure did some stupid things, but at least it was making his job easier. Opening the folder, he found only one document inside. Sighing, he double-clicked it open and began to read.

_Transcribed June 23, 2028. 3:35 p.m. _

_Los Angeles District Courtroom No. 3_

_People vs. Weiler, cont._

_Wright: Can you tell the court what you were doing at 8:00 last night?_

_Witness: I was alone, at home, hiding under my bed._

_Wright: … why were you under your bed?_

_Witness: Well, I was... afraid._

_Wright: Okay, I got that. What were you afraid of?_

_Witness: [unintelligible]_

_Wright: What was that?_

_Witness: I said, I was afraid of the Marshall._

_Wright: … [long pause] … What's the Marshall?_

_Witness: … [no response]… _

_Edgeworth: Wright, this is irrelevant._

_Wright: No, I don't think it is. [to Witness] Why were you afraid of the Marshall? _

_Witness: He broke into my house last week. I get nightmares sometimes... I was hiding in the closet, and I saw him in my bedroom. _

_Wright: Do you remember what you saw? _

_Witness: It was a skull... a red skull…_

Marlow skimmed the rest of the transcript, hoping for something more useful, but the dialogue after that point seemed to consist only of Edgeworth trying to convince the judge that the Marshall wasn't involved in the case at hand, Wright trying to convince him that he was, Edgeworth ridiculing Wright, and Wright scrambling for terrible comebacks. From what he could see, the Marshall really didn't have anything to do with that case, so nothing else of value was said about him for the rest of the trial.

"A red skull, huh?" Marlow leaned back in Adley's desk chair and groaned. "So cliche…"

Hammer, who'd been meandering aimlessly through the office, stopped next to the desk to give him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "...I told you you wouldn't find anything."

Marlow jumped to his feet. "Okay, give me that hat; it's going down your throat."

Approximately five seconds later, Marlow scurried out of the office and slammed the door behind him, breathing heavily and nursing a huge red mark on his cheek. He really hadn't expected the petite officer to pack such a punch.


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, when the trial reconvened, the judge looked slightly confused. "Court is now back in session for the trial of Adley Taylor… but before we start, what is that green thing on the defense's desk?"

"Vision failing you, Pops?" Marlow jeered, motioning towards the aforementioned 'green thing.' "It's a turtle."

"That's… what I thought it was," the judge admitted, now looking extraordinarily baffled. "But… why?"

Marlow shrugged. "I figured I'd let Conrad assist me, since there's always a chance he could eat one of the prosecution's important papers."

"Well, I appreciate your honesty." The judge turned to Sidney. "Would the prosecution like to call its first witness?"

"Y- Yes, Your Honor," Sidney replied, fidgeting with his scarf. "The prosecution would like to call Mr. Mark Randall to the stand."

Marlow blinked. _Who is this guy? An expert witness, maybe?_

The court bailiff led a short, stocky old man dressed in some sort of bluish uniform to the stand. He looked surprisingly well-built for how old he seemed, and his face said that he was definitely the crotchety type.

Sidney pulled on his scarf a little too tightly, almost strangling himself. "Witness, c- could you please state your name and occupation for the court?"

The old man huffed. "I'm Mark Randall, and I work as a janitor at the Andrews Business Complex."

Marlow narrowed his eyes. _Oh… that guy. He's the one who reported the murder. Why's he testifying now…?_

Sidney was fidgeting with his scarf again. "Mr. Randall, please testify as to what you heard outside the defendant's office at two a.m. on December third… if that's okay..."

"Hmph… man up a little, whippersnapper," Randall grumbled, folding his arms. "That night, I was just about to lock everything up when I passed by Miss Taylor's office."

Marlow was starting to get a bad feeling.

"I heard shouting from inside," Randall continued. "It sounded like Miss Taylor was arguing with some man."

"Objection!" Marlow frowned up at the judge. "We talked about this yesterday; it couldn't have been a crime of passion because the knife had to be brought from Adley's apartment."

"I haven't finished yet, you impatient punk!" Randall snapped, scowling at Marlow.

The defense attorney growled and cracked his knuckles. "You do _not_ wanna have a cranky-off with me, you old coot!"

"Hey, I resent that!" The judge had a rather amusing hurt look on his face. "Please just continue your testimony, Mr. Randall."

"Alright. So anyway, the guy sounded real mad, so I put my ear up to the door and started to listen," Randall explained. "Right after I did that, he started yelling about how he was gonna kill Miss Taylor. She screamed, and I heard her tell him to put the knife down." The old man shook his head. "I should've burst right in there and put a stop to it, I guess, but I'm not as strong as I used to be. I went downstairs and called the police."

"W- We dusted the doorknobs and flat surfaces of the defendant's apartment for prints," Sidney added, actually looking a little pleased for once. "Marcel Taylor had entered the apartment, and his prints were on the knife set, as well. The prosecution believes that he brought the murder weapon to the defendant's office intending to kill her."

"So it was self-defense, huh...?" Marlow murmured, pondering his options. Under the Bench Trial system, self-defense wasn't enough to dodge a murder charge, but if he decided to run that route, it would get Adley's sentence significantly reduced. It was the smart choice, and the evidence all seemed to fit.

He glanced over at the defendant's chair; Adley looked on the verge of tears. She shook her head. "Marcel would never do that," she whispered. "Please, Marlow, you know he would never do that!"

Had he been back home in Philadelphia, defending some rich businessman, he would have agreed with Sidney in two seconds flat. In fact, he probably would have made this argument himself. Marlow had always stooped to whatever low he felt was necessary to get the job done and collect his paycheck; it was stupid to do otherwise. After all, being a lawyer was just a job. He didn't give a crap about anybody except himself. A couple of tears from a client weren't going to change that.

The judge looked down at him expectantly. "Mr. Fernicker, do you have a rebuttal?"

Sidney's eyes pleaded with him: _take the deal. Make things easier for me and for you. _

"..." Marlow gritted his teeth. He had no idea why he was still hesitating. _Just take the verdict and run, dammit! _

The judge raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Fernicker...?"

* * *

_"...What're you thinking about, Mr. Fernicker?"_

_Marlow gave his friend a confused look. "What's with the 'Mr. Fernicker?' Are you drunk?"_

_"Not right now," Marcel chuckled, slinging his arm over Marlow's shoulders. "But you and I are gonna be big businessmen starting next week. Might as well get used to it, Co-founder."_

_Marlow laughed, rolling his eyes. "My old man still thinks I'm gonna wake up one day and accept his 'much more reasonable' job offer."_

_"Well, he is offering you a pretty big salary," Marcel admitted. "Honestly, sometimes I forget why you decided to start your own company with me in the first place, especially since it's something expensive like medical supplies."_

_Marlow sat up straight, looking somewhat worried. "Don't tell me you're backing out..."_

_Marcel gave him his finest "are you kidding me?" stare. "You know I'd never do that." He flopped into a nearby chair. "I just wanna know what gave you the idea, that's all."_

_Marlow smiled quietly. "It sounds super-lame, but... I want to do something where I can help people, you know?"_

* * *

Marlow sighed. _Aw, screw it. _He slammed his palm on his desk and whipped his finger through the air to point at Randall. "Objection!"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Adley's lips.

Marlow turned to Sidney and tsked. "You really don't learn, do you? I told you last time; if the victim was killed in an argument, why were Adley's transcripts stolen?"

Sidney flinched. "Th- The transcripts don't mean anything - someone could have stolen them in the confusion after the murder. Or the defendant could have simply misplaced them..."

Marlow decided it was time to appeal to the judge. "Your Honor, you said at the beginning of this trial that Adley Taylor is one of the best stenographers you've ever worked with."

The judge nodded. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, you'd have to be completely incompetent to 'misplace' a whole drawer full of files," Marlow argued. "And the police would have to be equally incompetent to not notice someone sneaking around the crime scene with said drawer full of files."

"Objection!" Sidney pulled rather violently on his scarf. "That's not evidence, Your Honor, that's personal opinion! Besides, Mr. Fernicker still hasn't shown anything to prove that there was even a reason for someone to steal the transcripts in the first place!"

Marlow rolled his eyes. "Calm down before you strangle yourself." He pulled a stack of papers out of his case file. "As a matter of fact, I was just getting to that."

Sidney gulped. "W- What?!"

"All of the files in that particular drawer had to do with a certain wanted criminal called

'the Marshall,'" Marlow explained, holding up the papers and flapping them back and forth for emphasis. "And I happen to have here a pretty compromising eyewitness account of the man himself. He'd probably want to get rid of this, don'tcha think?"

"Y- You can't possibly be suggesting that-" Sidney began, but Marlow cut him off with a glare and a wave of his hand. "Look, if you don't have anything that isn't a lame one-liner to say, don't say anything at all."

"B- But this is ridiculous!" Sidney countered, leaning forward with his hands on his desk until it looked like he was about to topple over the other side. "You're saying that the Marshall had reason to steal those transcripts. That's nothing but pure speculation! On top of that, the Marshall is wanted in thirty-two states! There's absolutely no indication that he was even in the area of the crime scene at the time of the murder!"

Marlow simply laughed off Sidney's argument, but inside he was panicking. _Dammit… I was hoping I could buy some time with that, but this guy's not taking any crap. Augh, this is what happens when you go off-script, you idiot! …Gotta think of something fast…_ He started casually flipping through his case file. _Think, think, THINK! _

"Hmph." Randall, who'd been watching the lawyers duke it out up until now, rolled up his sleeves and folded his arms. "If you whippersnappers don't need me for anything else, I really gotta get back to work."

Marlow turned to him and snarled. "Shut your trap, you whiny codger! I'm TRYING to think here, so zip it or I'll-" Suddenly, a flash of red caught his eye, and he stopped mid-sentence, mouth hanging open slightly.

Realization is sometimes described as washing over you, like some kind of gentle wave of epiphany that seeps into your skin and makes you gradually feel all warm and fuzzy inside. But that's a bold-faced lie. It's more like the kind of thing you feel when you're walking down the street, about to order a hot-dog from a food truck, and someone drops a baby-grand piano on your head. And then follows it up with an anvil or something.

Marlow chuckled once or twice in pure astonishment; it was the kind of humorless laugh that one normally associates with those about to go off the deep end. "Man… this is so cliche…" he muttered, still unable to take his eyes off the tattoo emblazoned on Randall's left arm.

It was a blood-red skull.

Randall glared at him, his charcoal-grey eyes seeming much sharper now. "You got something to say to me, punk?"

Marlow folded his arms and did his best to wipe the shock off his features. "Yeah, get back to the nursing home before your great-grandkids find out you escaped." It wasn't his best comeback, truth be told, but he was in the midst of frantically trying to formulate a new plan and didn't really have time to sweat the details.

The judge didn't look too pleased with him. "Mr. Fernicker, do you have any proof that this Marshall fellow was involved in the murder at all?"

"Of course I do, Pops," Marlow fibbed, pulling papers out of his case file in what he hoped was a not-panicky manner. "I've got tons of proof. I've got so much proof, it'll shock the beard off your face."

The judge blinked. "That sounds rather unpleasant."

Sidney timidly raised his hand. "Um, Y- Your Honor, I think he might be stalling..."

"What?! Stalling?! ME?!" Marlow slammed his fists on his desk. "I dare you to say that again!" he frothed.

Sidney let out a high-pitched 'eek!' and scrambled backwards. "Sorrysorrysorrysorrysorrysorry-"

"You wanna fight?! Huh?! C'mon, let's take this outside!" Marlow shouted, scrambling for something to use. As he flipped through his case file, a green head popped into his field of vision, latched on to one of his evidence photos, and pulled it to the side. Marlow gasped. "Conrad, I might need that!" he hissed, picking the turtle up by the underside of its shell and plucking the photo from its mouth. "Don't make me put you back in the brief-" He froze as he saw which photo it was. "...case…" he finished numbly before breaking out into a huge grin and planting a kiss on Conrad's head. "You are the best assistant a guy could ask for," he crowed, holding up the photo to the light with that song from the Lion King playing gloriously in his head.

The judge stared at him. "Mr. Fernicker…? Did you just kiss that turtle...?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, Pops," Marlow stammered, gripping the photo with both hands. "But what I do know is that Adley Taylor did not kill her brother." He smirked. "And right about now is when I prove it to you."

Sidney peeked his head over the top of the desk, which he'd hidden behind earlier. "P- P- Please l- let it be actual p- proof this time," he whimpered. "I w- won't allow any m- more wild sp- speculation…"

"Your unconvincing declaration aside," Marlow grumbled, rolling his eyes, "I've got real, solid evidence right here in my hand." He held up the photo. "Take that!"

The judge squinted to make out the photo. "Is that… a fingerprint?"

"I'm surprised you could see it from up there," Marlow stated somewhat appreciatively. "But it's actually not a fingerprint; it's just a fingertip-shaped blob of chemical residue that was left on the edge of the cabinet that housed the stolen files. I had the forensic guys analyze it, and it turns out that whoever left it there was wearing cheap latex gloves."

"W- What do you mean by 'chemical residue'...?" Sidney questioned anxiously.

Marlow glared at him. "Would you quit cutting me off like that?! I'll get there when I get there!" He took a moment to calm himself down. "Anyway, turns out the chemical is actually a cleaning agent commonly used to scrub toilets."

The judge blinked. "Why would something like that be left on a filing cabinet?"

"Actually, I can think of a few reasons," Marlow replied, smirking. "For instance, someone who'd recently been cleaning while wearing gloves decided to open that sucker up and appropriate the contents… someone like, say, a janitor, for instance."

"O- Objection!" Sidney tugged on his scarf. "Now you're saying that the witness stole the transcripts? What reason would he have to do such a thing?"

"Yeah, what he said," Randall snapped. "What would an old building janitor like me need with those files full of court mumbo-jumbo?"

"Actually, you'd need to get rid of them." Marlow's expression became gravely serious. "Because you are the Marshall."

A single bead of sweat dripped down Randall's forehead.

As the faces of Sidney and the judge began to take on surprised expressions, Marlow pulled the old transcript out of his case file and presented it before one of them could yell at him about how insane his theory was. "This copy of People vs. Weiler is the only file that the killer missed. It was stored on Adley's computer, which he couldn't have known the password for." He flipped to the page he needed and held it up to the judge. "One of the witnesses described having seen the Marshall in the flesh during the trial. He said he remembered, and I quote…" He smirked at Randall. "...a red skull."

The old man covered the tattoo on his arm self-consciously, scowling at Marlow. "That's ridiculous," he spat. "There's gotta be a million other people with this same tattoo!"

"A- Actually..." Sidney looked extremely sheepish. "I was curious about your tattoo myself when I first saw it... I- I was afraid it w- was a g- gang sign. So I went to the shop where you had it done, a- and the owner said it was a custom design that you brought in yourself..."

"In other words, nobody else has that tattoo," Marlow added smugly. "And that's not all I've got on you, codger."

"What?!" Randall roared, looking shaken.

Marlow pulled another photo from his case file. "Remember that toilet cleaner that was left on the filing cabinet? I didn't think much of it at the time because I was in a rush, but the forensic guys found that same chemical in other places around the crime scene, too. Places like the doorknob, Marcel's shirtsleeves, and, most importantly..." He pointed accusingly at Randall. "...the handle of the murder weapon!"

Randall gripped his arm so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "You...!"

"I took another look at the initial case report," Marlow continued, building momentum. "Turns out you, Adley, and Marcel were the only people in the building that night, so there weren't any other janitors that could have rubbed their cleaner all over the crime scene. And if the forensic guys were to compare the cleaner on the knife to the cleaner on your janitor-cart, I'm sure it'd be a match." He leaned forward, arms spread. "So you can wait for the test results to come in or you can keep your dignity and fess up right here. Well? What's it gonna be?!"

Randall gritted his teeth, digging his fingernails into his arm until it bled. "Why you... you dirty...!"

Marlow slammed his palms on his desk. "Just give it up, old man, because we all know how this thing ends! You found out that Adley had dirt on you, so you snuck into her office late at night to steal her files. But Marcel caught you red-handed, and God knows you couldn't let that happen! You shut him up with his own knife and waited until Adley got back so you could call the police!" He clenched his fists, angrier than he'd ever felt in his life. "You're a liar, a thief, and a cold-blooded murderer!"

Randall's head whipped back, and he let out a feral roar. "You're wrong, dammit!" he screamed, spittle flying from his mouth. "The Marshall was never one person; it was me and that rat Marcel!" He slammed his fist down on the witness stand railing. "I found out about the files and told him to help me get rid of them that night. And I made him bring a knife, because it'd be hard for me to hide something like that during my shift." His face was slowly turning purple, and the veins on his neck were bulging. "It should've been obvious that we had to shut that girl up, but he just didn't get it! It was supposed to be easy, but that idiot couldn't do what needed to be done! So I snapped, alright?!" Suddenly, he gasped, clutching his chest, and fell to his knees. Shaking with rage or pain or both, he turned his head to face Marlow, a dark look in his eyes. "There… I did it…" he rasped. "Is that... what you wanted?"

The courtroom was filled with a tense silence. Most people wore frozen expressions of shock; Sidney looked strangely relieved. No one moved, no one even breathed. In that moment, it seemed like the world had simply stopped.

Marlow glared right into Randall's fading grey eyes, expression stony. "I haven't quite figured that out yet," he said, his voice low and even. "But for now, this'll do."


	4. Chapter 4

Marlow stopped Sidney in the courthouse hallway after the trial ended. The prosecutor squealed, of course, but he didn't look quite as scared as usual. "I- It's been good to see you again, Mr. Fernicker," he mumbled nervously. "I don't know if you remember me, but I-"

Marlow cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Of course I remember you. You're kinda hard to forget." He frowned. "What I want to know is why you got me mixed up in all this. You knew from the beginning that Joe Schmö was really Marcel Taylor, didn't you?"

Sidney nodded timidly. "I didn't know you moved to Pennsylvania... otherwise, I wouldn't have told Miss Taylor about you. I never meant to cause you so much trouble." His blue eyes fixated on the floor. "I just… thought this case would be important to you. And I…" He trailed off.

Marlow grabbed him by the shoulders, startling him into making eye-contact. "You what?"

Sidney looked somewhat guilty. "Well, it's strange, but ever since you graduated, I've been thinking about how to get out from underneath your shadow," he explained quietly. "People at Ivy only knew me because of you, and you always got better grades than I did… I thought, if I fought against you just once, I might finally become stronger on my own." He blushed and hid his face in his scarf. "B- But th- that's a stupid reason to do what I did… I'm sorry…"

Marlow gently pushed Sidney away, sighing heavily. "No, the only thing that's stupid is you."

Sidney blinked. "Huh?"

Marlow rolled his eyes. "Come on. You had me in the jaws of grisly death back there and you still don't get it? You're already plenty strong on your own, so stop pretending you need me to solve your problems." He popped a cigarette into his mouth and walked away, shaking his head. "Honestly…"

Sidney watched him go, a small smile forming on his lips. "...You're right," he whispered, clutching his scarf. "Sorry."

* * *

Five and a half hours later, Marlow met Adley as she exited the detention center, a free woman for the first time since he'd met her. She looked happy, in a sad sort of way. It was a look that he would have had a hard time describing, but he knew it because he almost felt that way, too.

Adley ran a hand through her short brown hair. "I guess you'll be going back to Philadelphia now that the trial's over…"

Marlow smirked. "What, were you thinking I'd stay for you or something? Get real, kid."

Adley rolled her eyes. "Like I'd want a cranky jerk like you around." She fished around in her purse for a few moments, then pulled out a check and handed it to him. "That should about cover everything, right?" The dollar amount was enough to pay for both his plane tickets, hotel stay and standard fee, plus a little extra. He decided to call it a tip.

Marlow pocketed the check and gave Adley a knowing look. "Something tells me you didn't make this much just working overtime."

Adley smiled wryly. "Actually, Marcel's been sending me money since I graduated high school. His 'jobs' paid for me to go to college and even get an office in the city. That's how I knew where to send the key; he always included a return address." She looked slightly guilty. "You can understand why I didn't want to tell you that… I never knew he was the Marshall, though."

"So you already suspected he was making dirty money?" Marlow scowled. "That could've really helped me out, you know! I was practically grasping for straws in there!"

"Aw, I knew you could do it," Adley teased, giving Conrad, who was sticking his head out of Marlow's briefcase, an affectionate pat on the nose. The turtle rubbed his head up against her hand, and she giggled. "I think he likes me."

Marlow narrowed his eyes at the turtle. "Traitor," he hissed. As if to spite him, Conrad nosed Adley's fingers a second time, and she let out a bright peal of laughter. For the first time, it sounded completely genuine, and her smile made it all the way up to her warm brown eyes. "Take care, Marlow," Adley said softly, taking a step back. She was too proud a person to thank him out loud, but the sentiment showed in her face.

Marlow nodded, clenching his fist around the handle of his briefcase. "You too, kid," he murmured, surprised at the emotion that had found its way into his own voice. He turned his back on her and walked swiftly down the sidewalk, towards the nearest subway station. He didn't allow himself to look back; he knew that if he did, he might not make his flight.

Hours later, when he finally touched down in Philadelphia, made his way through the airport, and stepped out onto familiar streets for the first time in three days, puffy grey clouds covered the sky and tiny flakes of white floated through the frigid air, disappearing the moment they touched the ground. Marlow glanced up at the statue of William Penn, lightly dusted with snow, and smiled quietly. "You know, Conrad," he whispered to the turtle in his briefcase, "it might be time to change things up. Maybe I will get back into criminal law..."

He started to walk down the sidewalk, letting the city slowly sink in through his skin. For some strange reason, he didn't really feel the cold.

_- - Fin - -_

* * *

**Author's Note: Wow, that was long. Also… wow, I finished something! I can't believe it! Somebody pinch me! *starts hyperventilating***

**Anyway, I've been wanting to write about Marlow and friends (?) for a while now, but I wasn't really sure what I wanted to do. But then I saw the OC Contest over on Court-Records . net (which only happens once a year or so), and figured, oh, what the heck.**

**I told myself I'd write something short, and then this happened. Sometimes I amaze even myself. O_o**

**Also, I apologize for the lack of significant canon characters (except maybe the judge). I just felt that this is primarily Marlow's story, so including them too much felt kind of forced. *shrug***

**Anyway, thanks for reading all the way to the end! I hope you liked it! :D**


End file.
